Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

“There is,” Tom said, and Arten frowned.

“What?” Walter demanded.

“We can ask the man for information.”

Walter scowled in derision, but Tom had already turned away. He saw Colin standing behind him. “Colin, go get Sam and Ian.”

At a look from Walter, Arten said, “If you’re going to speak to this man, I’ll join you.”

Once Colin had found Sam and Ian, the five men left a disgusted Walter behind with the rest of the Armory escort and followed the scout, Went, across the plains to the top of a rise that looked down into a flat section of land. A house had been built there, a large section of ground given over to a garden beyond it. A copse of trees clustered at the end of the depression, and a thin stream trickled down its center.

Arten took the lead, heading down the slope, the rest trailing after. Before they’d made it halfway to the small house-not much more than a hut in Lean-to-a dog started barking wildly. A man emerged from the interior of the house, cursing the dog, until he spotted them. A shocked look crossed his face, and he ducked back inside, returning with a sword.

He came out to meet them, his dog at his side, the animal still barking, the growl beneath audible, teeth bared. The man halted three paces from them, his dark eyes flickering across all of their faces. They paused longest on Colin, confusion touching his gaze, before settling on Arten. His tanned skin wrinkled as he squinted. He was broad in the shoulder but not heavily built; what muscle he had came from maintaining his land.

But he held the sword with confidence, an obvious threat, even though the sword wasn’t raised, even though his grip seemed casual.

“Hush,” he said to the dog, and the dog stopped barking, although it continued to growl, feet planted forward. Its head came up to Colin’s waist, and its hair was short, matted, and multicolored, ears pointed, muzzle lean.

“Why are you here?” the man asked. “What do you want?” Arten didn’t respond, so Tom stepped forward. “We aren’t here to take your land or take you back to Portstown.”

The man’s gaze flicked toward Colin’s father, but he didn’t relax. Nothing in his stance changed at all. “That’s good, because I’ve no intention of giving it up, or going back to town.”

“We’re part of a wagon train,” Sam said, “heading out to settle a new town upriver from Portstown.”

“We were hoping you could provide us with a little information,” Tom added. “About what we might expect to find.”

The man’s sword lowered slightly. “Where is this wagon train?” he asked suspiciously.

“Up over the rise. We’ve been following the river for a week now.”

The man grunted. Wind gusted out of the northeast, and Colin turned, saw black clouds on the horizon. They flashed with internal lightning, a low rumble of thunder following.

“Storm’s coming,” the man said. Behind him, Colin could see a shadow moving in the door of his house. The dog’s growl had ground down into nothing, and it now stood straight, its attention on the storm. “You’d better find a place to shelter those wagons.”

“What about getting some information?”

The man hesitated, glancing again at Arten. But the commander of the Armory hadn’t made a move toward his sword, had kept his arms crossed over his chest for the entire conversation.

The man’s sword arm relaxed, and he shrugged. “You can join me and my wife if you want. I’ll tell you what I can. But it’s not much.” Then he turned, heading back to his house. The dog trotted along behind him, all the growling menace gone; it looked back once, as if uncertain whether they should be following its master or not, then caught up with its owner.

“Ian,” Tom said, “take Went and head back to the wagons. Tell them to hunker down and prepare for the storm, quick, if they haven’t done so already.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ian began climbing the slope behind, moving fast, Went practically stepping on his heels. The wind picked up even before they disappeared over the top.

“What do you hope to learn?” Arten asked as they moved toward the house. The man had begun shuttering the few windows.

“I don’t know. But it looks as though he’s been here for a while. He’s bound to know something useful.”

Arten and the rest entered the house before Colin. A woman stood just inside the door and pulled it closed, latching it with a plank of wood that stretched across the frame. She gave everyone from the wagon train a worried look, tainted with suspicion, her glance shooting toward her husband, who shook his head minutely.

The house was nothing more than a small room, a rough table set up before the fire pit against one wall, a bed shoved into a corner along with a few trunks, another table lined with bowls and knives and chopped vegetables on the opposite side. A pot boiled over the fire, and the heady scent of stewed meat and potatoes filled the room. Pelts were stacked on the dirt floor in another corner-prairie dog, woodchuck, a few fox, and one wolf. Candles had been lit, two on the table with the food, a third on the table before the fire, the light that filtered in from outside darkening as the storm moved in overhead.

The man pulled a chair out and set it before the table. “Have a seat,” he said, looking directly at Arten.

Arten’s eyes narrowed, but he sat, the other man moving away as he approached. Colin’s father took one of the other chairs, Sam the last. Colin found a three-legged stool.

The woman ignored them all, returning to cutting up the food for the stew.

“You’ve set yourself up pretty good here,” Arten said.

“No thanks to Portstown. Or any of the other towns for that matter.”

“Where are you from, originally?”

“Does it matter?”

Arten shook his head. “No. But if you’re that suspicious of us, why’d you let us in?”

The man hesitated. “Because if you wanted to arrest us as squatters and haul us back to Portstown for that bastard’s idea of justice, you would have done so already. There are more of you than there are of us.” His gaze turned toward Colin. “And because you wouldn’t have brought anyone as young as him if that was your intent.”

Arten grunted, giving Colin a brief look. “True.”

Colin felt a twinge of annoyance and shifted where he sat.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be wary,” the man said, and he touched his sword, within easy reach where he stood back from the table. His dog sat beside him, attentive.

A burst of violent wind rattled the shutters, set the door shuddering in its frame, and everyone fidgeted in their seats. Without warning it began to rain, the downpour thundering into the grass roof. The fire hissed as some of the water made its way under the cover that protected the hole for the smoke, the gusts whistling over the opening. The candles guttered a moment, but none of them went out. Lightning flared, highlighting the cracks between the wood that made up the house, and thunder rumbled through the ground. Colin could feel it reverberating in his feet, in the frame of his stool.

“My name’s Tom Harten,” Colin’s father said, “and this is Sam, Arten, and my son, Colin.”

The man nodded to each. “You can call me Cutter, and this is my wife, Beth.”

“How long have you been out here, Cutter?”

For a moment, it seemed Cutter wouldn’t answer, but then Beth sighed in exasperation. “Oh, just tell them. You don’t have to be so damned suspicious all the time. Not everyone’s out to haul you back to Andover!”

Cutter grimaced. “All right, all right. We came to the coast nearly twelve years ago, spent the last ten in this place.”

“By yourselves?” Arten asked, clearly impressed.